


Even Wilted Roses Can Still Bloom Fresh

by bernalheights



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, F/M, Hurt!Sam, Incest, It's more happy ending with a dose of heavy realism, M/M, Not Every Character has a happy ending, Rape/Non-con Elements, abusive!John, but it's not exactly a "Dead Dove Do Not Eat"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bernalheights/pseuds/bernalheights
Summary: Sam Winchester is 16 years old. He was born on May 2nd, 1983 at 4:18 AM to John and Mary Winchester at Lawrence Memorial Hospital. A chubby baby boy clutching to his mother while three shining faces watch with open adorationSam Winchester is 16-years old. He’s rebellious to a tee with a mean streak larger than the state of Texas. Skinny and spiteful and spitting insults like they’re sunflower seeds. Only two faces watch now. One face, hardened with age and misery, spits back barbs just as sharp. The other face, youthful but still aged with that same misery, stares with unconcealed resignation.Sam Winchester is 16-years old. He’s sprawled on a motel bed, all summer-tanned skin dotted with beauty marks. His body jolts forward in a rough pattern accentuated by the creaking of a rusty bed frame. With clenched fists and a blank stare, he accepts each thrust
Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, John Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 114





	1. Before

Sam Winchester is 16 years old. He was born on May 2nd, 1983 at 4:18 AM to John and Mary Winchester at Lawrence Memorial Hospital. A chubby baby boy clutching to his mother while three shining faces watch with open adoration.

Sam Winchester is 16-years old. He’s rebellious to a tee with a mean streak larger than the state of Texas. Skinny and spiteful and spitting insults like they’re sunflower seeds. Only two faces watch now. One face, hardened with age and misery, spits back barbs just as sharp. The other face, youthful but still aged with that same misery, stares with unconcealed resignation. 

Sam Winchester is 16-years old. He’s sprawled on a motel bed, all summer-tanned skin dotted with beauty marks. His body jolts forward in a rough pattern accentuated by the creaking of a rusty bed frame. With clenched fists and a blank stare, he accepts each thrust.

“…If you’re gonna act like a bitch, then you’re gonna be treated like one,” his Dad says followed by a grunt as he feels Sam tighten around him after a particularly deep stroke. He grabs at the tendrils of Sam’s hair yanking his head up momentarily before shoving his face back down into the pillows. “You even got hair like a bitch. Someone’s gonna snatch you up off the street thinking that you are one. Whatcha gonna do then? Haven’t I been telling you to cut this shit?”

Sam remains silent as he stares vacantly in Dean’s direction. Dean’s just as silent watching from the queen-sized mattress right across the room.

“Are you listening to me, boy?” John adjusts the angle to make his cock brush against that little bundle of nerves inside of Sam. It’s a cruel thing to give fleeting unwanted pleasure during such a harsh punishment but that’s why it works.

Sam moans, deep and regretful, the life momentarily restored in his eyes. In that moment Dean sees a plea so sharp in the hazel of Sam’s eyes it makes his stomach drop. So, he looks away.

“I said… When you act like a little bitch, you’ll be treated like a little bitch.” John punctuates each word with a deep movement of his hips making Sam whimper involuntarily. It feels like even from this distance, Dean can smell the booze on John’s breath.

“Yessir.” Sam says through gritted teeth.

Dean looks back up when he hears the sharp slap of skin. Dad’s pounding in harder and harder while Sam’s smaller body trembles underneath him. Each thrust is accented with a heavy hand across Sam’s ass, painting pale skin into a blood-rushing red. Sam’s eyes are empty again but that doesn’t stop the thready noises spilling from bitten lips. It doesn’t stop the tears falling down his face.

Dean wants to hate this but he understands the importance of what’s happening right now. Dad has never does anything unless it’s absolutely necessary.

~~~~~~~~

Sam’s always been a little different than Dean, a little more independent and a lot more selfish. It doesn’t matter how many people's lives are on the line; Sam would rather sit at home and finish up an English assignment or some science project. But how the hell is a paper mache volcano gonna matter in the long run if some innocent old lady gets mauled by a werewolf? This was their job. The family business. They were raised with a gun in hand, ready to save the world and be heroes. Why couldn’t Sam accept that? He even had 7 extra years of innocence on Dean; he should count himself lucky. Any other kid would kill to get a chance to do something this badass. They would be ecstatic to get to travel around the country in an awesome car. No rules, no curfews, just the open road and a gig where you get to save people, including a shit ton of hot chicks.

Besides, what they were doing made a difference. They’ve probably saved more lives than your average doctor. And you have to go to eight extra years of school and pay a crap ton for that bullshit. Dean’s got a GED and he’s doing just fine.

When Sam reached 15 years old, everything took a turn for the worse. Bitter words and reluctant compliance turned into heated shouting matches and outright disobedience.

With Dean, he’s never needed physical punishments. The pure weight of disapproval in John’s words can set his teeth on edge and fill his belly with a hot shame that he always does his best to amend.

Sam, on the other hand, can handle the disappointment that John dishes out. In fact, he thrives on doing the exact opposite of what Dad wants. Even physical violence rarely has an effect on him. A quick backhand is usually followed by a defiant head raised, proud and steady. I guess when you’re getting thrown around by monsters every week, a slap isn’t much in the long run.

This sort of punishment is the only thing that breaks... no... this is the only thing that  _ fixes _ Sam. They’re a nontraditional family so it makes sense that they handle their discipline in a nontraditional way.

When their Dad finally gets fed up with Sam, it always starts the same way. First, Sam fights with everything he has, trying to stop the inevitable. Then comes the begging. Dean fucking hates the begging.

Why does Sam have the right to sound so pathetic? He’s the one who brought it upon himself! Why does his whining make Dean feel so  _ wrong _ when everything Dad does is for the  _ right _ reasons?

When Dad finally fucks him, it all gets a little better. Ugly heaving sobbing and pleas taper into dead eyes and silence broken only by small grunts and whimpers. Sometimes if Dean’s around, Sam pleads to him. Things like  _ please, Dean  _ and _ make it stop, Dean _ . Sometimes he just repeats  _ sorrysorrysorry _ until his voice gives out. John would laugh, not cruelly… their Dad is never cruel… and just continue to grind into Sam. Sometimes if the begging gets to be too much, Dean leaves. Despite both his Dad’s suggestion to stay and watch and his brother’s pleas of  _ pleasedon’tleaveme _ , sometimes he just can’t bear it. Most of the time, though, Dean stares half relieved, half guilty, and worst of all, half-hard as the lesson is pounded into Sam’s body.

Being aroused is a purely physical reaction, years of ingrained porn habits, like Pavlov’s dogs. Instead of salivating at the ringing of a bell, he’s hard from the sound of whimpers and skin on skin. Who wouldn’t be? There’s nothing more to it. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

~~~~~~~~

John practically growls, signaling his climax as he empties his load into his son’s limp form. He grabs a rather impressive butt plug from the dresser next to the bed and slides it into Sam’s unresisting body. Sam gives a small final whine and sinks further into the bed.

When John had first suggested the plug to Dean with a smirk on his face, Dean had been confused, if not a bit disgusted. Sometimes it feels like his Dad gets a little too much enjoyment out of disciplining Sam. Sensing his hesitation, his Dad had reassured him it was purely to make sure the lesson stuck, nothing else. With his fears soothed, Dean helped choose just the right size to make sure the message truly sunk in.

John pats Sam’s ass with a satisfied grin. “What’s the rule about the plug, boy?” This question is how John finishes every disciplinary session. 

“Keep it in until tomorrow morning. Return it to your bag, clean as a whistle. 6 AM sharp. Fail to comply and it’ll stay an extra day,” Sam says. The words are mechanical and memorized. Sam’s never once returned the plug late. 

With the punishment over, John heads to the shower and hums softly as he closes the bathroom door behind him. Sam lays on the bed motionless, eyes clenched shut, and tear tracks marring his face.

These kinds of lessons usually last a little over 4 weeks before Sam starts acting up again. 5-6 weeks later, the lesson usually needs to be retaught. Sometimes it happens earlier if something big happens, usually due to a hunt or moving schools. It rarely happens later, even if Sam’s been good. It never hurts to have an extra lesson to make sure it sticks, The 2nd and 3rd weeks are always Dean’s favorite. Sam tends to finally come back out of his shell and starts talking more. A glimmer of light comes back into his eyes instead of the haunting emptiness. He’s Sam again but no longer disobedient and resentful. Just pure  _ Sammy. _

Tomorrow will be better for all of them, Dean thinks as he turns over in his bed. Maybe he can take Sam to the amusement park or to a museum. The nerdy little geek loves museums. Maybe he’d even let Sam drive. Maybe that would make him start talking earlier. Maybe it would wipe that blank look off of his face. Maybe it would ease this hot churning feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Maybe.

~~~~~~~~

Sam is 17 years old. He was born on May 2nd, 1983 at 4:18 AM to John and Mary Winchester at Lawrence Memorial Hospital.

Sam is 17-years old. He used to be rebellious with a mean streak larger than the state of Texas. Not so much nowadays.

Sam is 17-years old. He’s walking down the street with his books clenched to his chest and hair hiding his face. His knees wobble with each step and there’s a limp in his gait. The growth spurts have been taking it out on his body as he shoots up inch after inch. He’s almost taller than Dean. Still a couple more inches left to go. 

“You good, Sammy?” Dean looks curiously over as his brother stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk. Sam glances up for a few seconds, expression blank, before letting his curtain of hair slide back down his face.

He’s fine. Or at least that’s what Dean thinks he means. Sam not talking is par for the course. It’s only the first day after John’s last lesson and the one he got yesterday was rougher than usual. Ever since Sam turned 17, Dad’s been incorporating more and more demeaning things into each new lesson. Dean slings an arm over Sam’s scrawny shoulders that grow broader and broader with each day. Sam flinches and then settles. He glances over at Dean once more, expression still unreadable, before turning his face back down again.

They get back to the motel around 3 PM after walking home from Sam’s school. After a particularly harsh punishment, Dean tends to spend more time with Sam. He can’t really explain why but it just feels right. Dad’s on the sofa pouring over the details of a case in town. Dean steps away from his brother to try and assist.

Sam goes to the opposite side of the room, past all the beds and tables and slides down against the wall onto the stained carpet. Dean watches as Sam opens his backpack and roots through it for a book, paper, and a pencil with some serious gnaw marks on it. No one bothers to try and move Sam from his corner on the floor. For the next 4 hours, Dean and John try to figure out their new monster-of-the-week while Sam pours over textbooks.

It’s 7 PM when John stands up to stretch, cracking old bones, stretching joints and limbs. “That’s as much as we’re gonna get done today. Nice work, Dean. Never would’ve thought of a  Cynocephaly but all the clues match up. ” Dean lets the praise wash over him in a fulfilling glow. “Wanna head to the bar? I’m buying.”

“Sounds good. Let me get my jacket. Can we stop to get some grub first?” John nods in agreement as Dean shrugs on the coat. John turns to Sam.

“You’re good holding the fort, Sam?” From John, it’s more of a command than a question but Sam chances a glance up. There’s a layer of instilled fear there but behind that, Dean can tell his eyes are still dark and resentful. He’s just glad that John doesn’t notice. Sam nods quickly in assent and John grunts. John places a meaty hand on the back of Dean’s neck and scrubs over it with paternal touch. “Let’s head out.”

Dean gives one last look back at Sam who is wrapped back up in the pages of his book and heads out the doors.

~~~~~~~~

The diner was greasy and filling, just like Dean likes ‘em. He ends the meal with apple pie a-la-mode and a number from the flirty waitress written on a receipt. He pockets it and follows John out the doors and packs into the Impala.

The bar was fun, rowdy as hell but fun. They started with a couple beers to nurse while they scanned the bar for potential suckers to hustle. Two meatheads who looked a little to big for their boots were harassing a couple of chicks by the pool table and John threw Dean a knowing glance. Dean staggered over, playing drunk and stupid while the girls scramble away at Dean’s much appreciated distraction. After a couple of games, he managed to swindle the pair of them out of $800. He’s too busy gloating at his dad to notice the first punch that swings at him.

All hell breaks loose, from chairs and beer bottles being chucked at his head to obscenities he’s never even heard being thrown out left and right. John’s tangling with some dude who wasn’t even involved in the game and Dean dodging a knife from one of the dudes he scammed. Half the patrons have fled and half of them join the fight while the bartenders hide behind the bar probably phoning for local authorities. As Dean looks around, he realizes this might be a battle they might not win. As much fun as this is, it’s time to take some action.

He pushes back his jacket and grabs out the gun from his waistband. Clicking off the safety, he raises it up and fires off a couple of shots into the air which stops every last patron in their steps. It also really fucks up the ceiling but he thinks it’s worth it.

“All right, guys. As much fun as this was I’m thinking it’s about time to head out. We got places to go and people to see. So if y’all wanna keep your junk where it is, I recommend you stay the fuck out of our way.” He points the gun menacingly at the crotch area of the nearest meathead. Dad’s smiling, bloody lip and all, and heads towards Dean. Dean saddles up to the bar and slaps $100 down on the counter in front of the blonde bartender with tits nearly popping out of her black tee. It’s definitely not enough to cover the damage but with all the charm he possesses, it doesn’t even matter. “Sorry about the mess, sweetheart. It’s the risk of playing with sore losers.”

She looks him up and down, obviously liking what she’s seeing. “It’s fine. It practically happens every time Ray and Kevin come to the bar. They’ll be sleeping in a county jail cell again tonight, no doubt. Nothing new for a weekend in Dyersville.” She flips her hair and pushes out her chest out an extra inch, the black fabric clinging for its life. “I might have to think about investing in a gun though. Seems like you got the situations under control real fast.”

“Yeah. I’d probably recommend it for a dive like this. No offense,” Dean tacks on at the end.

“None taken,” She says leaning over the bar pushing her breast out even further and Dean can’t help but to glance down. “I  _ would _ take offense if you didn’t take my number though.” She grabs a napkin and scribbles down her digits in a loopy font.

“Well, I would hate to offend such a nice girl like you, Diane,” Dean reads her name from the napkin and then he tucks it in his pocket. She giggles and tucks her hair back again. Second time today. He’s good. Really fucking good.

He turns back to his Dad who’s staring at him with equal parts pride and annoyance that they’re still at the bar. He just smirks back and turns back to the patrons left in bar, including the suckers he hustled.

“Welp, it was nice meeting you boys. Can’t say I would love to do it again, so I’ll just leave it at that.” They walk out the doors and hop into the Impala and Dad peels out of the driveway like hell is at his heels. Dean can’t help but to laugh. Before long, John joins him. It feels good to hear his Dad laugh again.

They drive about 20 minutes to the nearest bar that hasn’t been ransacked by the Winchesters. It’s even more of a slum than the last place. Everyone in the bar looks practically homeless and barely any of the girls have a full set of teeth but Dean can’t bring himself to care. Shots are only $2 each and he just pocketed $700. Dean treats himself and John to eights shots a piece. By the time the ninth one hits he’s stumbling through a joke about a hooker, a nun, and a nursing student while the bartender is laughing his ass off. He can’t tell if he’s laughing at the joke or him, but Dean’s too sloshed to care.

He joins his Dad in a couple games of 8-ball later and is getting his ass kicked like no tomorrow. To be frank, Dean’s lucky he can still hold the pool stick straight at this point. As much time as they spend together, sometimes it feels like he hardly knows his Dad. But this, right now, has Dean flying like a kite. John sinks the solid black ball into the last pocket and Dean’s not the least bit upset he’s lost once again.

“All right, tiger. That’s 0-you, and what is it… 5-me,” John says looking smug and happy. It’s a great departure from the usual tight-lipped solemnity he usually sports. “Let’s head back, now. I’m sure Sammy is getting lonely.” If Dean doesn't notice that John adjusts his pants at the words, it’s only because he’s too busy basking in the moment.

~~~~~~~~

The drive home is a bit too swervy for Dean’s liking but the road is clear and the music is loud, so it suits Dean’s taste fine enough.

“We’re home, Sammy.” Dean slurs as he bursts the door open. Sam sits up in bed, hair ruffled on one side and matted on the other. He looks so flustered; Dean can’t help but laugh. John saddles up behind him and Dean watches as Sam’s body stiffens almost immediately.

“Aren’t you gonna greet your Daddy?” The words have a heat behind them and John steps closer to Sam who remains silent. “Always so mouthy, Sammy until you’re getting punished and then, you’re either mute or begging. It’s pathetic.”

The fear in Sam’s eyes starts to dampen Dean’s mood and he can’t help but to ease himself forward in an attempt to stand between his brother and father.

“Say something, Sam,” John says, starting to get heated. Dean can practically hear the jack-rabbiting of Sam’s heart. It’s not like this mutism is new or anything. Neither John or Dean has ever heard Sam speak a single word after the first couple of days after punishment, but Dean’s never seen his Dad push quite like this before.

John springs around him and grabs Sam by the collar before Dean can stop him. “Say something, you little bitch!” Sam’s still not talking but making high pitched distressed whining noise. John smirks, corners of his lips turning up with a vicious sneer.

“I guess one punishment wasn’t enough. Time for another, huh?” The whining gets louder and louder until it’s met with an upturned palm to the cheek. “Shut up. I gave you a chance to talk and you wasted it on pathetic whines. It’s too late now.” Sam is pushed to his knees and Dean can’t help but feel revulsion and a sick strain of lust run through his core.

“Dad, he didn’t really do anything wrong.” Dean tries to interject.

“Shut up, Dean.”

“But Dad-”

“I said, Shut up!”

“Yes sir,” he says it quietly. Barely audible over his dad’s heavy breathing and Sam’s whimpers.

John unbuckles his belt, undoes his fly and pulls himself from his pants. “Open wide.” Blow jobs are rather new. They started about 3 months ag. John thought it was smart to start adding “lesser” punishments for when Sam was being bitchy but not enough to warrant a full punishment.

Dean watches as Sam flits between several different emotions, almost indistinguishable, but he’s always been able to read his brother like a book. Sam settles on resignation and opens his mouth, pink petal lips trembling. John wastes no time and shoves in to the hilt. Sam gags, violent and his hands slap down on the denim of John’s thigh. John just holds him there until he passes through settling, then panic, then enough air loss to make Sam pliant. He pulls back and Sam lolls against John, his breath coming out in big heaving pants. The lack of oxygen makes him weak, eyes fluttering and on the brink of passing out. John pushes back in and starts fucking Sam’s throat with a viciousness that’s too brutal for words. John’s savoring the gagging and clenching throat around his cock, head tipped back in pleasure. He opens his eyes and meets Dean hesitant glance with something darker than Dean’s ever seen. “I swear, the best thing about whiskey dick is how long I can last,” John says. He pulls out again for a second to let Sam catch his breath again and pushes right back in. “I mean, Dean, a tight throat like this and I’d be done in five. His face ain’t the worst either. But I feel like I could do this forever.” There’s no response from Sam who’s barely conscious, choking on dick.

“I don’t think you wanna be standing there all night. Why don’t you join? I’ll even let you take his ass on the first round.” Sam’s eyes widen at that, real tangible hysteria and he starts whining again. “Shit, that feels good. Keep screaming on my dick.” John rams in again and again and again. Dean watches.

“I mean, I’ve seen you staring. I know you want him.” John’s watching Dean with careful eyes, he sees the hesitation and it’s like his Dad realizes what he needs to do, what he needs to say to sway Dean. He says the next words with an almost patronizing tone, smooth and reassuring. All the while, his dick is still down his youngest son’s throat. “Come on, Dean. This is for  _ Sam’s _ benefit. It’ll help the lesson sink in more.”

It’s what Dean was waiting for. In his soul, not even that deep down, Dean knows the truth. Dean’s seen John’s greedy eyes on Sam since Sam was 12. Well behaved or not, John’s always gotten off on fucking Sam just because it’s Sam. Dean just needed the excuse, the reason why. He never wanted to believe that his father is a pervert who finds any excuse to fuck his son. Sam isn’t needlessly suffering, he  _ needs _ this. And now, after years of tamping down his own desires, tamping down his love and his lust and his need to grab Sam and own him in the basest ways, Dean has an excuse too. For the first time, Sam needs Dean too. He needs Dean to show him his place.

He starts to shed his clothes with the utmost efficiently and it’s obvious something in Sam snaps. He pushes John away with a hearty shove and starts to scramble towards the door. The alcohol in Dean makes him slow to react, but not slow enough. He grabs Sam and slaps him once in face. “You need this Sam,” he slurs and Sam shakes against him, fighting to break free. He slaps him again. “You need this!”

John comes up from behind Sam and grabs him and practically carries him to bed. He thrashes the whole way through. John throws him onto the bed and pins him down immediately. Sam’s back to Johns front and he grinds down and Sam whimpers. “Dean please don’t. Dean, please. You’re drunk. Please-” It’s the first time he’s ever spoken this early. Dean moves to the front and silences him with a quick kiss. It’s salty and wet from tears and spit and the taste of his Dad which is disturbing on a whole different level but it’s the best kiss Dean’s had. “It’s for your own good, Sammy.”

John and Dean quickly switch places. John gets a kick to the leg during the transfer which earns Sam another slap in the face but besides that, there’s no trouble. Dean finishes stripping under a wriggling Sam and his Dad hands him a tub of Vaseline. “He should still be pretty open from last night, so don’t worry about going too slow,” John says. Sam’s whining again, but John doesn’t make him stop this time. He just holds him still while Dean gets to work.

Dean parts the round globes of Sam’s ass, squeezing once, and in between is the prize he’s been waiting for. He’s watched from a distance, but at this view it’s even more stunning. “Beautiful, ain’t it.” John mutters from above him. Dean can only nod his head in agreement. He slicks two fingers and dives right in, and oh, it’s perfect. Sam’s hot and tight inside and sucking in his fingers like he’s hungry for it.

Dean and John shift him onto his hands and knees and Dean can feel even deeper, even if it’s less tight. He finds the little nub he’s been searching for and rubs against it as Sam’s knees buckle. He’s moaning even as tears run down his face and Dean keeps pressing harder and faster.

“Little slut for it, ain’t he?” John’s watching in awe and Dean grins back. He adds another finger and increases the pressure even more until Sam clenches against him, pulsing and shaking coating the bed with come. Dean and John both look down at the wet spot underneath Sam and share smiles as they push Sam back down onto his stomach and Dean slicks up his own cock.

There’s one last plea from Sam. “Please don’t.” It’s small, inconsequential at this point, and Dean pushes in. It’s heaven, nirvana, whatever the fuck you call it, it’s perfect. Dean’s found paradise in his little brother’s ass. Sam’s now silent, no noises except those grunts forced out by a particular movement.

“Now your brother went and gave you a nice orgasm and he didn’t even have to, considering this is a punishment. But I’ll let it slide if you’re a good boy.” John climbs on the bed until his crotch is directly in front of Sam’s face. “I want suction and if I feel anything more than a graze of teeth, you’ll be eating through a straw. Do you understand?”

Dean hears the quietest, “Yes sir.” and John thrusts back in. They work in tandem, fucking in and out. Sam is nothing but pliant and obedient, taking them like he was made for nothing but this.

The rest of the night is spent just like that, albeit in different positions, so many Dean can’t even name them all. By the end of the night, he’s spent. He falls into bed satisfied and spent. He watches John push the biggest plug he’s never seen before into Sam’s gaping hole. Come oozes out the sides and Dean can’t help but to give one more satisfied sigh before flopping back into the sheets and falling promptly to sleep.

~~~~~~~~

Dean wakes up to a raging headache and a sore dick. His mouth feels like cotton and taste like the inside of a trash can. He sits up recalling last night with a smile and looks around the room but only sees his Dad snoring away in the bed beside him. There’s an envelope propped up on the kitchen table that wasn’t there last night and Dean ambles out the bed. He can see his name written on the front.

He opens the thick padding of the envelope and letters spill out. They’re acceptance letters into colleges all starting with  _ Congratulations _ . There’s Duke, Princeton, Harvard, Columbia, and Stanford. There’s colleges like University of Wisconsin, University of Texas, University of Michigan, 2 different Universities of Illinois. Obscure ones like University of Mary, Hendrix College, and something called Olivet. There’s acceptance letters from 37 different states and 70 different colleges. There’s scholarship offers and grants and even some job offers. Dean leafs through each one and turns back to John sleeping in the bed and notices all of Sam’s belongings are gone. At the bottom of the envelope, he finds a blue post-it, so small and insignificant he almost missed it underneath all the letters. There’s five words written in Sam’s scribbly writing. The five words seem to be written over and over directly on top of each other, making the text messy and bold, but Dean can read it all the same.

_ Don’t look for me, ever. _

Dean never will.


	2. After

_How It All Ends:_

**John Winchester**

John Winchester never recovered from his younger son’s departure and he could no longer claim the ‘functional’ in ‘functional alcoholism.’ He drank morning, evening, heavier at night. Eventually, he lost all capability and motivation to even hunt down the thing that killed his wife. No justice, no vengeance, just drowning sorrow and guilt in liquor. Dean got tired of babysitting a father with no purpose and left five months after Sam. It was on a cold day in September. Sam had probably started school by then. John just drank more.

In the dead of night in seedy alleys, bars, and truck-stops, he finds barely-legal lanky boy-whores. All limbs and no finesse. Brown shocks of too long hair, tip-tilted eyes, never the right color. Sometimes, when he was lucky, they’d have dimples or a scattering of beauty marks. State after state, drink after drink, scam after scam, boy after boy. On August 21, 2002, one boy was as sharp with his tongue as the boy who sparked it all, this gnawing hunger. John felt waves of nostalgia sweep over him as he fucked the mouthy boy into the stained motel mattress. Unfortunately for John, the boy was as sharp with his words as he was with a knife. He stabbed John on the dawn of August 22, 2002, three puncture wounds in the gut and one in the leg. The boy took a wallet containing, $300 cash, a picture of “John, Mary, Dean, + Baby Sammy”, and a handful of stolen credit cards. The last thing that John saw as he bled out on the bed was the mockery of his youngest son staring down at him in disgust. John Winchester died bleeding out 15 minutes later. He was 48 years old with no one around to mourn his lost. No one would’ve anyway.

**Dean Winchester**

Dean Winchester left his father five months after Sam had left them. John was incompetent at best and incontinent at worst. Dean still had a mission in his mind, one he was going to carry out no matter the cost: kill the thing that killed his mom. After all, that’s what caused all of this. You can lay all the blame for their fucked up family on John… on him, but you can’t deny that if Mary had never been killed, none of this would've happened.

Dean had nothing but constant research on his agenda with a healthy side of alcoholism. No time for relaxation, pleasure, or sex, just one objective. In fact, Dean never had sex again after that one fateful night in April 2001. Self-disgust, guilt, and an inkling of something else lingered. As fucked up as the night was, Dean knew that any future encounter would never be able to compare to the absolute pleasure of that one night. Nothing could even come close. 

Ten months after leaving his father he discovered that the thing that ruined his life and cut his Mom’s short was a demon. A demon named Mary. How ironic. It was a low-grade demon fresh out of hell who was simply having fun killing woman with her former human namesake. Dean researched for another month and found her bones four months after that. Two months later he burnt them in front of her screaming body. He watched the vessel burn away to ash and felt… nothing. No relief, no remorse, just… nothing.

Dean hunted stoically and practically emotionless for the next two years. He was interviewing a civvie, her brother’s heart was ripped out by a werewolf, when he collapsed on the living room floor. He woke up in a hospital with IVs running from the fold of his elbow. He contemplated ripping it out but decided to stare at the wall until the doctor came in. He’s had a brain tumor, inoperable, one to two years to live.

Dean tried to feel something, anything. He was blank except for a distant pining thought of Sam. The doctor’s recommended a grief counselor. He denied it. They recommended staying with family until his time comes. He had none. His mother was killed by a demon in a house fire. Two years ago he identified his father’s body in a morgue in southern Georgia. And his brother… well… he had no chance with him. He didn’t want one in any case. The last recommendation the doctor had offered was a hospice. Surprising them both, he had agreed. It was a free-aid care center for those reaching the end of their life. It had a swimming pool, a cafeteria, a gym, and a recreation room. It was nice but Dean mostly stayed in his room. The first thing Dean asked for when he arrived was a computer.

When Sam was 15, he made his first email: _sam.winchester0124@hotmail.com_ . Even at that age he was a bit uptight. He lets a small laugh escape from dry lips as he remembers his own email he made at 19: _bustyasianlover@hotmail.com_. Dean booted up the chunky laptop and logged into his email. 4390 emails, all spam. Only one email address had ever been in his contacts. He types with shaking hands:

_Hey Sam,_

_I don’t know if you even still use this email. I killed the thing that killed mom. Turns out it was just a demon having fun. Dad died about three years ago. Stabbed by a prostitute. I should die in about a year or two. Brain Tumor. Kinda what we deserve, huh? I’m stuck in this hospice called Shady Pines until my clock runs out but at least they got a swimming pool._

_I’m sorry… for everything. Doesn’t count for much, I know._

_I hope your life turned out to be everything you wanted._

_-Dean_

He never got a response.

He wrote in a bulky black checkered journal every day without fail. Nurses tried to get glimpses but it was like he had a sixth sense and always managed to close the notebook before anyone could even skim. When he wasn’t writing in his journal, he read books or stared blankly at the TV, whether or not it was on. The staff tried to get him to interact with them, with others, but every attempt was met with an empty stare or a clever brush off.

Eventually his brain activity deteriorated. By the end, he could barely form sentences or feed himself. Still everyday, he wrote in that journal. A nurse finally managed to peak over and catch him off guard. The nurse saw the same 2 words scribbled, barely legible at that point.

_SorrySamSorrySamSorrySamSorrySamSorrySamSorrySorrySorrySorrySamSamSam_

Dean Winchester died in his sleep one week later at the age of 28. The same nurse who managed to get a glimpse of the notebook did a quick search through the database and found some answers. Dean Winchester. Son to John Winchester (Deceased). Son to Mary Winchester (Deceased). Brother to Sam Winchester. He looked through the journal again with no one to stop him. Every page was a letter to Sam, most likely the brother. Apology letters, updates on life, funny stories of childhood, anything and everything. Dean wrote about pretend universes where Sam and Dean fought monsters together, pretend universes where Sam and Dean grew up with a mother still alive, pretend universe where they grew old together. They filled the pages and the nurse had to shut the pages feeling guilty for invading such a private world. At least it helped with one thing.

Dean was buried in a plot behind the home. A simple headstone made of granite sat atop. It read:

**Dean Winchester**

_Loving Brother_

**1979 - 2007**

**Sam Winchester**

Sam managed to be happy for 4 years. Or as happy as he could be. He still had nightmares of green eyes, rough hands, and pain but he pushed through. He attended Stanford University: Class of 2005. He didn’t know when he decided but he knew he wanted to pursue law. Pro-bono, hopefully. He spent his undergraduate majoring in business and even managed to make a couple of friends. He never got really got close to any of them but sometimes they went out for coffee or drinks. Sam plastered on a smile and tried not to flinch when too many people brushed up against him at the crowded bars.

He kept his scholarship and a perfect 4.0. He practically lived at the library. That’s where he met Jessica Moore during his sophomore year. A year older than him and in the pre-med program, she was following in her father’s footsteps. Sam first met her when she was restacking books in the astronomy section. She asked him out every time he came in and he politely declined every time. It soon became a familiar ritual, a game even. She became the closest friend he’d ever had.

Sam had a library book due, one day, and couldn’t make it to the library until five minute before closing. He had rushed into the building planning to drop the book off and head out when he heard a commotion behind one of the shelves. A broad shouldered beast of a man was pushing Jess into the shelves, hands roaming everywhere. Muffled protests and screams were all Sam needed to surge forward and lay the man out on the floor. He kicked him, foot connecting over and over into the crumpled body until soft hands pulled him back. The police were called and the man was carted away with a broken nose, a fractured clavicle, heavy bruising, and 5 broken ribs. The next time Jessica asked him out, he said yes.

Their relationship was an anchor that kept Sam grounded. He would wake up some nights, sweating and crying, big heaving sobs. Jess would pull him back down rubbing soothing circles on his back and whispering meaningless comforts into his hair. She never pried into his past, respectful and way too good for him. Sometimes, Sam felt like he didn’t bring anything into the relationship but trauma but even Jess tried to soothe those doubts.

It was senior year and Jess’ first year into medical school. He had an interview for the Law School at Stanford. Everything felt right. Then it wasn’t.

Jess was pregnant. With his kid. With their kid. She was keeping it. Her body, her choice. Sam shattered in slow motion. He knew he was barely capable of being a decent boyfriend, much less a father. A father.

The same night as the announcement, he went to a bar and drowned himself in liquor until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. He met a man that night. Liam had green eyes, dirty dirty blonde hair, and just a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Liam fucked him the bathroom of the bar and for the first time in a long time, Sam knew where his place was in the world.

Liam was a drug dealer with a lucrative business in prostitution. Sam left a note on the nightstand he and Jess shared and left with Liam the next night. The next three years were a haze of drugs and sex. The next three years was using and being used, littered in bruises on his hips and coke in his veins.

Liam had a thing for watching videos when they fucked. Sometimes it was porn he really liked but most of the time it was videos of Sam being fucked and slapped around like a ragdoll by various clients. One day, the video in Liam’s email wasn’t loading properly, so they had to send it Sam’s. Already on his 2nd hit of heroin, drugs singing in his veins, he gave out the older email to send the video to. It was the only one he could remember in his current state. It was an email he hadn’t used since high school: _sam.winchester0124@hotmail.com_ _._

Only two unopened emails were in his inbox. One email sent 3 minutes ago with a video attachment from Liam Drescher. One email sent 3 years ago from Dean Winchester. Liam fucked Sam rough and ugly on a mattress pad while the video played in the background. All Sam could think of was that unopened email.

It was two days later when Sam had dried out enough and gathered the courage he needed to open the email.

_Hey Sam,_

_I don’t know if you even still use this email. I killed the thing that killed mom. Turns out it was just a demon having fun. Dad died about a year ago. Stabbed by a prostitute. I should die in about a year or two. Brain Tumor. Kinda what we deserve, huh? I’m stuck in Shady Pines until my clock runs out but at least they got a swimming pool._

_I’m sorry… for everything. Doesn’t count for much, I know._

_I hope your life turned out to be everything you wanted._

_-Dean_

There were four Shady Pines that showed up in the search tab. Two were retirement homes, one was a hotel in Oklahoma and one was a hospice in Nevada. Sam called the hospice in Nevada first only to be informed that Dean Winchester had passed away one year ago. They still had some of his things in storage if a family member wanted to pick them up. Sam hung up, breathing hard and vomited straight onto the carpet. One day later, Sam packed up his meager belongings and hitched back to California

Jessica was living with her parents and he showed up on their doorsteps halfway into withdrawal. It was as if his body was just holding out because the second her parents opened the door, Sam collapsed on the porch as seizures started to rack his body. He woke up in a hospital bed, IV running from his elbow, white linens tucked into his body. Jessica was watching him in a chair by the bed. She had started crying the second his eyes had opened. He knew he didn’t deserve her tears. 

During his four days in his half-unconscious haze of withdrawal, he spilled everything. A little bit about monsters, a lot more about his brother and father. The monsters were brushed off as withdrawal crazy talk. It seemed that talk of his family wasn’t. Sam couldn’t even bring himself to care.

A week later, he met his son. An excitable two year-old with a mop full of dirty blond hair and a dimpled smile. His name was Johnathan. Everyone used to call him John. It isn’t soon after Sam’s arrival that they stopped.

Jessica’s parents were the most patient and understanding people Sam had ever met. A struggling doctor with an inclination towards humanitarian work and a soft stay-at-home mom with hugs that could warm the darkest hearts, even if only for a few seconds. They were almost unreal, he constantly waited for the act to drop, for true colors to show but there was nothing sinister hidden behind the kindness besides maybe a little too much pity.

It was all very convenient, it barely felt real. He moved in with them after his hospital stay. Johnathan had ended up moving in with Jess’ grandparents for the first couple of months of Sam’s stay. And the only other conditions involved seeing a therapist. They even helped him re-apply to law school.

It turned out law school was a little more than Sam had anticipated. He fell apart before he even stepped into the classroom on his first day. Heaving, sobs wracked his body. His chest tightened with panic and he felt himself fading. He woke up in the nurse's office on campus, Jess’ dad watching him with such genuine worry he started crying again. He felt pathetic but so relieved when they made the phone call that let him drop out permanently. 

The week before Sam started his new job at the library, he had flown down to Nevada. He stepped into the Shady Pines lobby and immediately puked all over the linoleum. After he was cleaned up, he was given Dean’s belongings. There were a couple items of clothing including his leather jacket. It still smelled like him. There was also the amulet that Sam had given him when they were kids. At the bottom of the pile was a thick notebook. Sam sat in the lobby for hours and read every page, every apology letter, every story of a made-up worlds they never lived in, every regret Dean ever had. He read until the letters turned blurry beneath his tears and the words on the pages turned into gibberish as Dean’s brain deteriorated.

He visited the grave out back.

**Dean Winchester**

_Loving Brother_

**1979 - 2007**

There was a plot being built nearby. Shovels still laid in the grass next to the empty grave. He grabbed a pick-axe, all his tears had dried, face blank. He brought it down, once, twice, three times. His arms ached, sweat running down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. Dean’s gravestone was still standing when he was done but a chunk was carved out, illegible. The grave could now only be read as:

**Dean Winchester**

_Brother_

**1979 - 2007**

After, Sam burnt every remaining piece of Dean left… the clothes, the jacket, the amulet, and the notebook. He watched the flames lick the edges of the pages and then he went back home. 

It took time and patience, but remarkably Jessica and Sam found love with each other again. Their marriage wasn’t perfect, obviously. One could even describe it as turbulent bridling with frustration, misunderstanding, and too much grief. But there was love. So much love that it bubbled over and smoothed out a lot of those rough edges. Not all of them but all the ones that mattered the most.

Jessica finished med school shortly after Sam got promoted at the library and she started a fellowship at a local hospital. They found a place together, got married, and had two more kids: another boy and one girl. There were times, late into their lives together, where Sam still woke up, screaming and shaking. Jess, as always, was there with a steady hand and soothing words. They had learned quickly into their marriage that soundproof bedrooms do wonders to help prevent traumatizing your kids. Apparently, there’s things that countless hours of therapy can’t fix.

Sam had Dean’s grave moved, ruined gravestone and all, to the same plot as their mother’s in Lawrence, Kansas. Twice a year, on his mother’s birthday and on Dean’s birthday, he would visit. He brought flowers for his mother but never anything for his brother. He would just stare at the demolished part of Dean’s gravestone in silence. He would never forgive his father but he forgave Dean the best he could manage. It didn’t stop the hurt any less.

Jessica retired from her successful career as top-rated OBGYN at 65 while Sam cut back his hours at the library but never left completely. They spent the rest of their lives doting on their seven grandchildren and enjoying each other’s presence whenever they could. Jessica passed away at 78 years old after several complications with breast cancer. Sam passed the very next day in his sleep. They were buried together on the same plot as his mother and his brother.


End file.
